Darkness Stalking
by darke wulf
Summary: I wrote this BEFORE 618 Raw based on a comment I saw regarding the possible identity of the Stalker. I have been told this is a VERY evil story. Warning violence, death


Standard Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters used in this story (though Rox and I are taking donations towards our 'Buy Kane' fund). They are owned by the WWF. I am making no money from this little piece of drivel. There is no need for a lawsuit.  
  
  
  
Darkness Stalking  
by: darke wulf  
  
  
He stood under the gray skies, contemplating the gravestones that stood before him. He chuckled to himself as he remembered the horror filled faces they had both worn when he had killed them. He had killed them both face to face. He had wanted them to know, before they died, exactly who was responsible for their deaths...and why.  
  
They had both had to die. They stood in his way, kept him down. It had been because of them that he had lost control in the first place. Their love and compassion breaking through his power like it had been so much Swiss cheese. He had been the Master, and because of these two miserable souls he had lost everything and had been sent back to anonymity. At that time he had vowed to get his revenge, no matter how long it took.  
  
And so he had plotted and planned, gradually regaining power little by little until he was ready to strike. Everything had gone according to his plan. For weeks he had watched them, reacquainting himself with their habits, rediscovering their weaknesses. Toying and taunting, then disappearing into nothingness.  
  
He had watched eagerly as the anger and frustration grew. Watched as the helpless rage mounted, only to be diffused time and again by these two. That is when he realized that they had to be permanently neutralized. They were too dangerous to be kept alive, no matter how satisfying it might have been to see their despair when his final plan was put into action. Complete victory would always elude him as long as they lived, for they knew how to defeat him, they knew how to destroy his work without even realizing they were doing it.  
  
And so he had struck. First the woman had died. He had had to wait for the perfect moment, when his power was strong enough to withstand hers. Then he had snuck into their house when she was alone. As she had sat, brushing her hair in the mirror, he had come up behind her. Grabbing her long tresses in his gloved fist, he had thrown her from her seat and into a wall. Her shocked expression as she had fallen to the floor in pain had been priceless. She had begged, pleaded with him to not hurt her, to spare her life.   
  
And he had laughed in her face. Grabbing her neck this time, he once again hurled her across the room. This time to crash into the vanity mirror she had been sitting at only seconds before. The smell of her blood assaulted his nose, an intoxicating aroma that he had hungered for for ages. It was only with incredible willpower that he had kept himself from leaning down and tasting the blood as it ran from the cuts that crisscrossed her body. He did not wish to be caught, to be identified as the killer, and so he had regretfully instead merely grabbed her throat once again and, holding her high in the air, had slowly crushed her windpipe.  
  
And as the light had faded from her pale blue eyes, as he felt part of the will that had defeated him before die with her, he had exulted in his now-assured victory.  
  
His remaining foe had tried to hold back the darkness, as he had expected him to, but without the girl it was a hopeless battle. The fool did not even truly comprehend who the real enemy was. But, as ineffectual as he might be alone, he still had to die.  
  
But he was too large, to strong to risk a fight. So instead the one who had come to be known as the Stalker had snuck into his opponent's hotel room and had slipped into his drink a powerful drug, designed to paralyze the victim but leave him or her completely aware of what was happening around them. And so the Stalker waited in hiding until his victim fell back onto the bed, still and silent but for the harsh, frantic breaths that came as he found himself unable to move. Then the Stalker had revealed himself, and watched with malicious glee as anger and hatred shone in the other man's eyes...along with a fear too intense to be hid.   
  
For, as soon as the man had recognized the Stalker he had known that he was going to die, as she had died before.  
  
And die he would...painfully and with full understanding of what the future held for the rest of the world. Reaching into the bag that he had brought with him, the Stalker pulled out a large, unremarkable...and unidentifiable...hunting knife. His victim's eye followed his every move as he had stalked over to the bed. Wanting to work unhindered, the Stalker cut the shirt and jeans from the helpless man before him, leaving him clad only in a pair of silky black boxers.  
  
Then, with a slice on the end of the victim's right big toe, the fun had begun. Cut by cut the Stalker had worked his way slowly up the other man's body. As he went he had explained everything to the dying man, whose blood was running in ever increasing amounts to saturate the blankets on which he lay.  
  
The Stalker had explained how, all those many months ago, he had not died, as everyone had thought. For, while the love and goodness that shone from his two enemies had been enough to topple his control and banish him, it had not been enough to destroy him. Instead he had been buried...imprisoned and ignored until the righteous anger felt when the woman had first been threatened had loosened the bonds that held him. The Stalker had explained how, little by little, drawing on the rage and hatred that had come from seeing the now dying man beaten and injured, he had managed to chip away at his prison. Until, finally, he had once again been free.  
  
But his freedom had not been enough. Try as he might, he had not been able to regain his previous position of power and control. Every time he had made any progress, every time his threats against the woman had brought forth feelings of rage and hatred to empower him, either she or the man or both had been there with a kind word, a calming influence, and he had watched helplessly as his work had disintegrated before his eyes.  
  
But no more. He had seen when that realization had come to his victim, his eyes had widened in horror. There would be no one now to destroy his hold, to send him back into imprisonment. For one of the only two people who had that power was already dead, and the other would soon be joining her.  
  
That realization...that look of dread and hopelessness...had been what the Stalker had been waiting for. With one quick stroke he had brought the blade of his knife across his victim's throat, grinning with pleasure as his victim's breathing had slowed and then finally stopped.  
  
It was finally over. He had won.  
  
Now there was no one left to prevent him from retaining the power and control that was his by right. There was no one left to chase away his evil and darkness with hope and light. He was finally victorious, after years of being a prisoner...of lying dormant and helpless...trapped in his own mind.  
  
At each grave he bent, leaving behind a single black rose, his fingers rubbing over the engraved names there.  
  
Sara Calloway  
1942 - 2001  
Beloved Wife  
  
  
Kane Calloway  
1946-2001  
He will be missed  
  
Straightening from Kane's grave, the Undertaker...the side of him that was the Lord of Darkness now firmly in control...laughed as the sky wept around him.  
  
And deep in a dark, isolated corner of his mind, the last piece of Mark Calloway withered away and died.  



End file.
